


She's Gone

by ebbj9891



Series: In Quest Of Something [37]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Family Loss, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Original Character Death(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-16 08:43:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2263248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebbj9891/pseuds/ebbj9891
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daphne suffers a loss and struggles to cope with it. With Justin away, she worries that she has nobody to turn to, until Brian unexpectedly arrives to offer her his support.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing a lot of fics lately that focus on Daphne and Brian's friendship over the years. This idea popped up more recently than the others and seemed to grow very quickly, so I thought I'd start posting it. I'll hopefully post the remaining chapters quite soon. As always I'd love to hear your thoughts, I always appreciate feedback! Thanks and... enjoy? Maybe? This obviously might get quite angsty, given the subject matter, so perhaps 'enjoy' isn't quite the right word to use here!

The call comes at 2am.

It rouses Brian from a deep sleep and throws him into panic mode.  _Who the fuck is calling at this hour?!_

It’s either someone with a death wish, or something bad has happened. He hopes it’s the former - he’d rather yell at some asshole than have to deal with something terrible.

He picks up on the third, maybe the fourth, ring, without getting a chance to check caller ID. His vision is still fuzzy and the room is too dark. He collapses into the pillow as he answers, “Who is this? What do you want?”

Not a shining example of good manners, but it’s fucking early and he was counting on a good night’s sleep. Work has been rough lately. Being without Justin for three weeks and counting has been even rougher. It’s 2 in the goddamned morning, he’s not going to waste time with bullshit etiquette.

“Brian?” 

That makes him sit up straight - that trembling, watery voice. It’s Daphne. Is it Daphne? He’s not used to hearing her sound so distraught. It rings a faint bell, and it only takes him a moment to remember; the last time he heard her sound so upset, it was at the hospital. Justin was in a coma. Daphne was sobbing in Jennifer’s arms. He was sitting there, practically catatonic, utterly heartbroken, and all he could do was listen to the two of them falling apart.

“Are you okay?” He asks, rather pointlessly. It’s obvious she’s not. When all she does is breathe down the phone, very unsteadily, Brian tries again. “What’s wrong?”

“Is Justin there?”

He glances at the other side of the bed; unrumpled, cold, empty. “No, he’s away. San Francisco, remember?”

“Oh,” Daphne says, her voice wobbling. “I forgot. I’m so sorry - I forgot.”

She falls silent. Brian starts to pull himself out of bed, reaching for his robe. It’s fucking freezing. The goddamn thermostat broke again and without Justin around, the bedroom gets alarmingly cold, alarmingly fast. He wraps his robe tightly around himself and adopts his most gentle tone, the one very few people get to hear, the one that still makes him feel slightly vulnerable whenever he uses it. “Daphne... what’s wrong?”

She inhales, sharply, shakily. Then, on the cusp of a sob, she confesses, “My mom died. She’s gone.”

Brian feels like he’s been punched in the chest - repeatedly, savagely. He doesn’t really understand why; he’s never met Daphne’s mother, he can’t even remember her ever really mentioning her parents. Then she speaks again and he knows exactly why it hurts so much: “I have to go. I’m still at the hospital. I have to... I’m sorry I woke you.”

Her voice is drenched with anguish. He can see her, sitting in some hospital hallway, maybe hidden away in some distant corner, shaking like a leaf and struggling to hold herself together. He remembers her, the way she caved into Jen’s arms all those years ago, weeping helplessly. He remembers the days that followed, how she would show up with red eyes, a worn face, and an armful of yellow tulips wrapped in pink ribbon. He remembers how the ribbon matched her prom dress. He remembers thinking:  _Justin doesn’t deserve any of this, and neither do you._ She doesn’t deserve what’s happening now, either. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,  _fuck._

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, but he quickly realises the line is dead.

She’s gone.

*

The fluorescent light above her is flickering. It flickers, flickers, flickers, stays steady for about ten seconds, and then flickers some more. Isn’t fluorescent lighting bad enough in and of itself? She hates the harshness of it, the bleakness. She didn’t think it could get worse, but the fucking light above her is flickering.

Oh, and her mother is dead. That sucks as well.

Daphne hasn’t moved for the past three hours. She is sitting in a plastic chair that is giving her a backache, and her eyes are stinging, and her head is pounding, but she can’t bring herself to stand up and leave. She is outside the room where her mother died. She has sat her long enough that her mother is no longer there. She was wheeled down the hallway ages ago. Down to the morgue. Down to be lifted onto a slab that fits into a tiny compartment in a wall  _full_ of dead people.

Daphne knows all about the morgue. She knows every inch of this hospital. This is her hospital, her workplace, her bread and butter, her passion, her sanctuary. It is now also the place where her mother died. She doesn’t know what to do with that information. She doesn’t know how she’s ever going to walk down this hallway again without thinking:  _this is where my mom died._ She’ll simply have to find an alternate route, and maybe become really, really good friends with the nurses on this floor so they can play with the schedule and fit her patients in elsewhere. She may not be able to move at the moment, but just as soon as she does, she never wants to be here ever again.

The nurses were checking on her for a while, but then there was a shift change. Her mother’s nurses are gone. Her mother’s doctors are gone. Now she’s the only person left in this hospital who knows that Evelyn Chanders is dead. It is an incredibly lonely feeling, especially since people keep passing her by, not taking any notice at all. Apparently, she’s been sitting her for so long that she’s faded into the wallpaper. 

Ugh, the goddamned wallpaper. It’s supposed to be soothing. It’s supposed to bring about a sense of calm in a place where calm very rarely exists. The wallpaper is  _bullshit._ Daphne has always hated it - the pale green leaves floating against whiteness. It’s even more insipid than the blue and pink baby chicks in the maternity ward. She really can’t stand staring at it anymore - the leaves aren’t calming, they’re burned into her goddamned retinas, and it almost feels like they’re mocking her. She closes her eyes and tries to breathe. It’s not easy. It’s not easy at all.

She jumps when a hand rests on her shoulder. Her first thought is:  _mom?_  Her second:  _maybe security have decided to kick me out._ Her third, as she opens her eyes, is:  _what on earth is Brian doing here?_

He squeezes her shoulder and nods to the empty seat to her right. “Is this seat taken?”

Daphne shakes her head, stunned beyond words. Then she remembers: she called Brian. She’d almost forgotten. She’d tried calling Justin but his phone was off, so her next move was to call Brian, thinking he’d simply pass the phone to Justin and that would be that. She’d forgotten that Justin wasn’t in New York with Brian - he’s somewhere else, for some art thing, somewhere far, far away. It makes Daphne’s chest ache. She needs her best friend. She needs him close. He would know what to do. She has no fucking clue. She has no idea how to cope with her mother being gone, and she has no idea how she will possibly get through it without Justin by her side.

But she can’t keep fretting about that. She knows that the unfortunate reality is that Justin isn’t here, and she’s not going to make him be here. Brian is here. Brian.  _Brian_. She’s glad, she really is, but she honestly doesn’t understand why he showed up. Brian didn’t know her mother. Brian isn’t her best friend. But then again, it doesn’t really matter why he’s here. What matters is that he is. He’s here, sitting next to her, his hand resting on her arm, and he’s looking right at her.

She hasn’t faded into the wallpaper after all.

Very gently, he asks, “What happened?”

She swallows, building up the courage to say the words. It was hard enough telling him the basics: that her mother died. That her mother is dead. That her mother is gone. Going into actual detail seems terrifying. She’s not ready.

Brian waits, patiently, his hand curled gently around her forearm. Daphne breathes in and out, in and out, until she feels strong enough to explain, “She had a stroke. They called me to let me know. I’d just finished a shift, not an hour earlier, and I had to drag myself out of bed and back to the hospital. I took too long. I was in the parking lot when they called to say it had happened again, and that they’d lost her. I was outside with my feet in a puddle when my mother died.”

It sounds so silly it’s any wonder Brian doesn’t laugh at her. She kind of wants to laugh:  _I was outside with my feet in a puddle._ It sounds absurd! Daphne knows that, as silly as it is, she’ll remember that for the rest of her life. She’ll remember the icy water soaking through her Keds as Dr. Morgan explained, very calmly, that he ‘regretted to inform her’ that her mother had ‘passed peacefully’ at 1.47am. Daphne wonders if he realises how much it hurt her, to hear the news delivered like that. She’s delivered news to patients like that a thousand times, reading from the script, reciting phrases she and her colleagues all know by heart. They’re supposed to say these things because they’re intended to sound compassionate yet professional. When she heard Dr. Morgan reading from the script and reciting those phrases about her mother, Daphne wanted to throw up. The bile that rose in her throat served as a timely distraction from her freezing feet.

Her feet are dry now. Dry and toasty warm. That’s how long it’s been since her mother died. 

As soon as she’s finished explaining what happened, Brian removes his hand from her forearm and stretches his arm around her. He seems slightly hesitant about it, like he’s not sure what to do. She thinks, guiltily, that Justin would know what to do. But Justin isn’t here. Brian is. He might not be her best friend, but she does know that he won’t read from any tedious scripts or recite well-worn phrases at her. That’s something.

“You didn’t have to come,” she whispers, leaning into him a little. She’s relieved when he hugs her closer.

His response is gentle, but firm, and wonderfully reassuring: “Sure I did.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

“I tried your apartment. When you weren’t there, I figured you might still be here.”

Daphne nods. There’s a painful lump lodged in her throat; it’s unpleasant to speak around, but she feels she has to give it a shot. If she doesn’t, she’ll probably stay sat in this uncomfortable plastic chair for the rest of her life. So, with a strained voice, she requests, “Get me out of here?”

Brian stands up and offers her his hand. She takes it, stares at his hand clasping hers. _Is he wearing his wedding ring?_ Now’s not the time to ask. She lets Brian pull her to her feet. He then wraps his arm around her waist and begins leading her out of the hospital.

As soon as they’ve exited the hallway, that awful hallway where her mother died, a weight lifts from Daphne’s shoulders. She sags, with relief, against Brian, who holds her closer and supports her as they make their way towards the exit.


	2. Chapter 2

When they reach the parking lot, Brian feels Daphne freeze up beside him. She stops for a mere moment, takes a deep breath, then presses forward. He’s impressed with her perseverance. He doesn’t know what to expect of her in a situation like this; he’s watched her deal with what happened to Justin, but at a distance, and Justin survived. As agonising as that was, it was a potential loss, not a permanent one. This is permanent. And this is...  _was_  her mother.

As they approach her car, Daphne silently hands him her keys. Brian unlocks the car and is about to get in when he notices she’s fumbling with the passenger door handle. He walks around and opens it for her. She swallows heavily and sinks into her seat. Brian closes the door gently and returns to the driver’s seat.

The entire way home, Daphne is quiet. She stares out the window, slumped against the door slightly, her hands trembling in her lap. Brian pretends not to watch her, but every time they get stopped at a red light, he subtly turns his focus to her. She looks like hell. He’s staggered by the stark contrast between this Daphne and the Daphne he’s known for years - bright, bubbly, beautiful Daphne. It’s entirely unfair, but he misses that Daphne already.

When he pulls into her space outside her building, Daphne turns to him and asks vacantly, “Do you have anywhere to stay? You can stay here, if you want. I mean, you don’t  _have_ to-”

He’s so unfamiliar with whoever she is right now that he can’t figure out what she wants or needs. At a loss, he offers, “I can find a hotel if you want to be alone.”

Daphne glances up at the building and grimaces. “I really don’t.”

“Then I’ll stay,” he says, watching her hands tremble in her lap. “Hold on, I’ll get the door for you.”

*

It’s almost 6am by the time they get home. Daphne looks at the clock above the hearth and counts the hours that her mother has been gone, then the minutes, and then she starts wondering about the seconds. Brian touches her shoulder lightly and asks, “Want some coffee?”

“God, yes.” She tries her best to smile at him, but she doubts it looks anything like a smile ought to. As Brian steps into the kitchen, she sits on the couch, pooling against the armrest. She can hear him rustling through the cabinets, probably trying to find the right supplies. She thinks of calling out to him to tell him where everything is, but her throat hurts and she doubts she has the capacity to string that many words together. Anyway, he’ll figure it out.

And indeed he does; Brian reappears soon enough with two cups of coffee. Daphne couldn’t be more grateful that he’s chosen the big mugs, the ones that vaguely resemble goldfish bowls in size. Then she takes a sip and is  _exceedingly_ grateful - it’s super strong, just the way she likes it. She smiles at him, a little more convincingly this time (she hopes), and says, “Thanks.”

“It’s okay.”

They sit silently for a while. With only a couple of lamps on, her apartment is dimly lit, which is a pleasant change from the harsh fluorescent lights at the hospital. There’s no harsh light, no hospital staff bustling by, no nothing except her coffee and blessed silence shared with Brian. Thank God it’s him here, and not anyone else. Thank God it’s not one of her other friends. If it were Chelsea or Grace, things would be  _very_ different. They would be rushing around, trying to help her, trying to fix everything so it’s just so, trying to make everything cozy and comforting and perfect. But her mother is dead. Nothing can be just so. Nothing is going to be cozy, or comforting, or perfect. 

Well, that’s not entirely true. There is something immensely comforting about Brian’s presence. It’s not intrusive or overbearing, like Daphne worries her girlfriends might be at a time like this. He’s not doing any hovering or smothering. He’s simply there; calm and quiet, and supportive in such a way that she doesn’t feel burdened or overwhelmed. 

What’s more, she doesn’t feel pressured like she might with Chelsea or Grace. They would be expecting a grander show of grief right now. They would need her to cry, sob, wail, break down, fall apart. Is that what she should be doing right now? She cried a little at the hospital. She teared up seeing her mother’s dead body, walked down the hall with her vision swimming, then broke down in private in a bathroom stall for precisely thirty seconds. Then she pulled herself back together and went to talk to Dr. Morgan. She almost broke down when she called Brian, because it was then that she had to admit it out loud: that her mother is gone. But that was it. She isn’t even close to tears right now. Is that wrong? Should she be weeping up a storm?

Daphne picks up a cushion and hugs it to her chest, then turns to face Brian. “Is it weird that I haven’t cried yet?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t cry when my father died. But then, we weren’t close.”

“My mom and I weren’t close.” Daphne stares into her coffee, black as ink, and amends, “My parents and I aren’t... weren’t... well, closeness was never really our forte.”

“Really?”

He sounds surprised. She’s surprised he sounds surprised. She had thought that Brian had everyone figured out, including her. Daphne laughs a little and asks, “How did you think Justin was getting away with it, all those times he claimed to be staying at my place when he was with you? My parents had no clue what was going on.”

They were always sort of distant. Daphne can’t remember a time when she ever  _really_ felt close to them. They occasionally stepped up to the plate, parenting-wise, with rules and expectations, lectures and ultimatums, and indulgent birthday and Christmas presents. But there was always a divide, even at the best of times. 

Sometimes she watches other parent-child relationships and thinks:  _I wish I had that._ Jen and Justin. Debbie and Michael. More recently, Gus and J.R. and their horde of amazing parents. Daphne has never really known anything like that. Her dad is always away on business, always has been, and her mom... 

“My mom was never really  _there,”_ she says, testing the words out in her mouth. This isn’t something she’s ever spoken about with anyone. Justin knows, but that’s because he’s been there for all of it. He’s always understood the situation, so she’s never felt the need to talk it out with him. She thought she understood the situation but now she’s not sure anymore. “Like, she was physically there. She was... around. But she wasn’t...”

“Present?”

She stops staring into space and looks at Brian. “Yeah. How did you know?”

The corner of his mouth quirks slightly. “My mother was like that. There, but not  _there.”_

“Like... you could be right near her, and feel totally alone?”

He takes a long sip of his coffee, then murmurs, “Exactly.”

Daphne sighs heavily. “I feel bad for talking like this. She just died, I...”

“You don’t have to pretend,” Brian says, shaking his head. “I’ll never understand why people feel compelled to do that. It’s bullshit.”

“Did people pretend when your dad died?”

Daphne knows she’s probably crossing a line right now. Justin has confided - or, rather, complained - several times over that Brian doesn’t talk about his parents, and especially not his father. There is very little known about Brian’s parental situation other than that it was never good. In fact, Justin estimates that it was truly horrendous. She feels bad, asking about something that largely remains a mystery to her best friend. If she had more energy, she’d be shocked with herself. She would normally  _never_ ask a question like that, but apparently her filter is currently defunct. Besides, Brian raised the subject first. Maybe he’ll forgive her for pursuing it. Maybe he’ll give her a pass, given what’s just happened. Daphne glances at the clock; four hours, thirty-two minutes, and how many seconds?

It feels like it takes Brian double that to answer her appalling question.

“Almost everyone pretends when it comes to him,” he says, then adds, very quietly, staring into his coffee, “And not just when he died.”

“It must take a lot of focused energy,” Daphne muses. “That kind of... delusion. Sounds kind of taxing.”

Brian lifts his head and smiles appreciatively at her. “My thoughts exactly.”

She’s not going to be bothered with it. It would be delusional to re-imagine her mother as some picture-perfect parent. It’s exhausting enough processing all of this as it is; she doesn’t have what it would take to deal with a fictional version of events, too. In fact, she doesn’t even have what it takes to continue processing. She needs a break.

If Chelsea or Grace were here, they would be horrified by what she’s about to say. But they’re not here. Brian is, and it would take an awful lot to horrify Brian. Daphne doesn’t think there’s anything  _she_ could do that would shock him. She knows he’s not going to judge her for what she’s about to say. “Wanna watch TV?”

“Sure. More coffee?”

She nods and hands him her mug. As Brian heads back into the kitchen, she grabs the remote and turns on the TV. It takes her a while to find something worth watching; by the time she’s flicked to an interesting channel, Brian is back with more coffee. As Daphne takes her mug from him, she glances at his watch. Four hours, thirty-nine minutes, and an undetermined amount of seconds. She focuses on the TV, taking some semblance of comfort in the strength of the coffee and the fact that Brian’s sitting a little closer to her than he was before.


	3. Chapter 3

Daphne doesn’t want to go to sleep.

If her state of mind were more positive, she might tell herself:  _go to sleep and this terrible day will be at an end._ But her state of mind is not even remotely positive, so she’s not focused on the day being over. She’s not focused on the promise of rest. She’s focused on the fact that whenever she wakes up - later today, tomorrow, three days from now - she will be waking up motherless. She has never woken up without a mother before. She doesn’t know how she’ll handle it.

So she forces herself to stay awake. Brian fetches her coffee after coffee after coffee and they sit in comfortable silence, watching TV. She appreciates that he doesn’t press her. Anyone else would have forcibly carried her off to bed long ago. She likes that Brian seems happy to indulge whatever mood she’s in, even if that current mood is:  _I will not, won’t, absolutely cannot go to sleep yet._

But even Brian’s extra-strength, super-caffeinated coffee isn’t going to keep her up forever. By midday, she’s aching with fatigue and struggling to keep her eyes open. She doesn’t want to go to sleep, but she’s been up for over thirty hours now, and nobody should be awake for that long. She was already exhausted when she finished her shift last night. She’s not sure what terminology would fit her current state - it’s probable that no words exist for this level of tiredness. Finally, when she realises she’s seconds away from falling face-first into her coffee, Daphne has to admit to herself that it’s time to rest.

“I’m going to bed,” she announces, mostly because she suspects if she says it out loud, she’ll feel beholden to herself to do so. Brian nods at her. She stands up, grateful that her legs decide to cooperate. “The spare room’s good to go, if you want to rest.”

“Maybe in a bit,” he says, shrugging. Daphne’s not surprised - she’s well aware of his track record for surviving with scarce amounts of sleep.

She walks to her bedroom, avoiding looking at the pictures on the walls as she enters. It’s mostly her and her friends, but there’s several of her mom. Her mom in Paris, on her year studying abroad. Her mom and her dad at the beach, smiling into the camera. And her personal favourite, the photo she’s treasured since she was seven - her mother as a child, maybe eight or nine, looking utterly identical to Daphne.

Daphne turns and leans against the doorframe. As Brian meets her gaze again, she says, “I’m going to wake up tomorrow without a mom.”

She’s relieved when this isn’t met with an outpouring of sympathy or reassurances. Brian simply nods his head slightly, a soft, kind smile on his face. It sort of seems to say:  _it is what it is, and I’m sorry._

She’s not sure how to adequately express how grateful she is for that and everything else. Brian probably doesn’t expect it the way other people might. So, as she gently closes the bedroom door, she calls out, “Thanks for staying.”

*

“No, I don’t  _enjoy_ lying to Justin, but I don’t see any other option - do you?” Brian takes a drag of his cigarette, then snaps over Cynthia’s snippy reply, “That was a rhetorical question.”

She huffs, then lectures, “You know Justin would want to know what’s going on.”

“Thank you for providing such valuable insight!” He retorts sardonically. “You know, in the eight years we’ve been involved, I’ve never really gotten to know him all that well. I’m so glad I have you around to help me navigate the enigma that is my boyfriend.”

“Brian,” Cynthia says, in that very stern tone she normally wields when their staff aren’t pulling their weight. “You should-”

“Hang up the phone before I have to listen to more advice I never asked you to give?”

“Just try hanging up on me and see what happens, Kinney.”

He sighs and stares at his cigarette. It’s down to a tiny, useless stub, so he tosses it. “Daphne doesn’t want him worrying. I’m going to respect her wishes - she just lost her mother, after all.”

Brian feels uncomfortable playing the dead mother card when the dead mother in question isn’t his (if only!), but he knows this will shut Cynthia up so he goes ahead and plays it anyway. As he had predicted, this silences her. He fills this silence quickly, explaining, “I’ll call later to let you know when I’ll be back. In the meantime, if you hear from Justin, tell him I’m in meetings. That would have been the truth, anyway, if this hadn’t happened.”

“Fine,” Cynthia replies, rather sullenly. Then she abruptly hangs up. That’s a power play, if he’s ever seen one. After a moment of deliberation, he decides to let it slide. He hates forcing her to lie to Justin almost as much as he hates lying to Justin himself. Fortunately, it hasn’t actually come to that yet. Justin hasn’t called or texted so Brian hasn’t been forced to respond with some bullshit about where he is or what he’s doing. 

He heads back upstairs. Daphne’s bedroom door is still closed and the apartment is silent. Brian checks his watch and wonders how long she’ll stay sleeping - it’s been close to nineteen hours now. Since she disappeared into her room, he’s slept, showered, eaten, arranged for leave, and emptied his supply of cigarettes. Tuesday has turned into Wednesday, and the shitty weather that was plaguing Pittsburgh when he arrived has abated. It’s still freezing as fuck, but there’s sunlight pouring in the windows. He hopes that will help, whenever Daphne does wake up.

It might be sooner rather than later, Brian realises, when someone comes knocking loudly at the door. He pauses before going to open it, feeling slightly ill at ease given that this is Daphne’s home and not his. But then the knocking starts up again, louder this time, and he decides to go ahead and answer it before whoever it is breaks the door in two.

He opens it and is met with an older woman who is clearly related to Daphne somehow - they have the same eyes. Well, almost; this woman’s eyes aren’t as warm as Daphne’s, they’re decidedly cool and are currently assessing him critically. Before he can say anything, she sighs sharply and snaps, “Terrific. Another one.”

Then she marches past him into the apartment. “Where is my niece?”

“She’s-”  _sleeping,_ is what’s on the tip of his tongue, when Daphne suddenly emerges from her room. He doesn’t miss the panicked expression that flicks across her face when she sees her aunt.

“Aunt Meg?”

“Daphne.” Aunt Meg nods curtly at Daphne. “Well, dear, come over here.”

Brian watches with intrigue as Daphne approaches cautiously. She’s quickly pulled into a stiff hug which lasts all of three seconds. Her aunt then holds her at arm’s length and says, “You should have called. I was expecting a call. We all were.”

“Sorry,” Daphne mumbles, blushing. “Dr. Morgan said he’d handle it.”

“Dr. Morgan isn’t family.” On this note, Aunt Meg wheels around and stares at Brian. “This one is new. Introduce me, won’t you?”

“Oh, he’s not...” Daphne sighs, and rolls her eyes a little. “This is Brian. He’s Justin’s boyfriend. You remember Justin, right?”

Brian forces a smile as Aunt Meg tenses. “Yes, I believe I do remember Justin.”

“He’s away at the moment,” Daphne explains, but Brian’s the only one around to hear it. Aunt Meg has marched off into the bedroom. Daphne rolls her eyes at Brian and mouths  _kill me now._ He grins at her and is most pleased when she smiles back brightly. 

“You don’t have anything appropriate,” Aunt Meg announces, striding back into the living room. She rifles through her purse and retrieves an envelope. “This is from your father. He returned from Boston yesterday and has been making arrangements - he doesn’t want you worrying about the cost, dear. You’ll need a black dress - nothing showy, mind you - and black heels. A coat, as well, with this weather. If  _he’s_  going to be with you, the heels will need to be rather high. The funeral is tomorrow at Allegheny Cemetery, 12pm sharp. We’ll be at your father’s immediately thereafter. He and I will handle everything, you don’t need to concern yourself any further.”

Brian very nearly laughs out loud at how insulting that sounds. He almost feels bad for that, but Daphne looks like she wants to laugh, too. Then, as abruptly as she arrived, Aunt Meg leaves with little more than a terse, “I’ll see you both tomorrow at 12pm.”

As soon as she’s out the door, Daphne smiles thinly and says, “That was my Aunt Meg.”

“She seems lovely,” Brian drawls, raising his eyebrows at Daphne, who bursts out laughing. He sits down on the couch. Daphne joins him, curling her legs underneath herself.

“She’s a piece of work,” Daphne sighs, shaking her head. “As are many of my relatives. She’s my mom’s older sister and she lives to disapprove of me.”

“What’s to disapprove of?”

“Ummmm,” Daphne purses her lips with mock pensiveness, then gestures to the apartment around them. “Single woman, living alone, career-focused, childless, and lifelong best friends with a fag. I am her worst nightmare made flesh. Then again, she’s mine, so it’s an even trade. By the way, you so don’t have to come tomorrow. You’ve done enough.”

Brian looks at her, assessing her reaction carefully as he asks, “Do you want me there?”

Daphne shrugs and stares at the coffee table. “I’ll be fine.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.” He turns in towards her and touches her arm lightly. “Do you want me to be there?”

She looks at him and smiles again, albeit more weakly this time. “Would you?”

“Of course.” He returns her smile and promises, “Anything you need.”

*

The only thing weirder than going shopping for funeral clothes is asking Brian to accompany her on such a miserable quest. Daphne feels embarrassed doing so, but he did say  _anything,_ and she needs someone there to ensure whatever she picks is appropriate. She has no idea how to dress for a funeral, let alone her mother’s, other than that it can’t be ‘showy’ as per Aunt Meg’s condescending advice. 

“Honeycutt would probably be a better pick for a task like this,” Brian calls from outside the fitting room. “Unless you’re planning on wearing a suit, I’m not the best with fashion advice.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she laughs. “I would love to show up in a suit, dressed all androgynously, just to see the look on Meg’s face.”

“You’d look hot,” he says flirtatiously. Daphne smiles to herself as she slips into the first dress. She’s glad he’s acting normal; she needs it right now. Plus, she always enjoys his flirtatiousness.

She unlocks the door and steps out. Brian looks up from the magazine he’s flicking through and nods approvingly. “Again, I’m not Honeycutt, but I know you look good.”

“Just good?” She teases, smiling warmly at him.

“Beautiful,” he amends, smiling back with clear affection.

Daphne blushes a little and glances down at the dress. ”It’s nice, I guess.”

She steps back into the fitting room and changes into the next dress. This one is a little nicer - silk, instead of stretch fabric, and more flowing. The other one would have gotten annoying with its fitted skirt. Plus, the snug bodice wouldn’t have gone down well with Aunt Meg. It probably would have been deemed far too ‘showy’ or,  _gasp_ , God forbid, ‘slutty’ (which is what Daphne suspects ‘showy’ actually means). This dress is softer, sweeter, and more comfortable. Admiring herself in the mirror, Daphne plays with the loose skirt and twirls a little. She then immediately feels like a wretched human being for  _twirling_ in  _funeral clothes._ Ugh.

To distract herself from the guilt, she opens the door to show the second dress to Brian. He smiles approvingly. 

“Better, right?”

“Better,” he agrees.

“See, you are good at this,” she says. “I’m sure Emmett would be helpful, but I don’t know if I could handle his...”

Daphne trails off, trying to think of how to put it without sounding like a bitch. Smirking, Brian supplies, “His  _joie de vivre?_ ”

Daphne giggles. “Yeah, that. Also, I feel like he’d be very cuddly. I don’t think I can deal with the whole nurturing thing right now.”

With mock outrage, Brian exclaims, “Are you saying I’m  _not_  nurturing?”

She laughs and says, “You are, actually. Just a different kind of nurturing.”

As she slips back into the fitting room, she calls out to him, “I like it.”

*

As they leave Macy’s, funeral gear purchased and ready to go, Brian asks, “Want to grab some lunch?”

He isn’t sure whether that’s an appropriate question, but fuck appropriate. He hasn’t seen her eat anything since he arrived. In a shameless attempt to tempt her, he offers, “We could go to The Capital.”

Daphne pauses, thinks for a moment, then asks awkwardly, “Is it awful that I want to say yes? I don’t know if that sort of thing is allowed.”

By ‘that sort of thing’, he supposes she means going out for a fancy lunch when her mother died yesterday morning and they’ve just finished preparing for her funeral tomorrow. Brian shrugs. “I have no idea. But fuck what’s ‘allowed’ - do you feel up for it?”

She grins at him and nods. Brian feels relieved - relieved that he didn’t upset her, relieved that she’s going to eat something, relieved that she’s looking like herself again. He loops his arm through hers and leads her to the car.

The Capital is surprisingly quiet when they get there. The last time Brian was here for a client function, it was roaring with activity, but they’ve missed the lunch rush, the weather is bleak, and it’s mid-week, anyway. Still, even though there are scarce few diners in the restaurant,  he doesn’t want to overwhelm Daphne. He quietly asks the hostess to seat them somewhere secluded and she kindly shows them to a table away from the other clusters of patrons, where it’s peaceful and private.

Daphne asks about Justin, then Gus, then Kinnetik, seemingly wishing to avoid the topic of her mother. Brian gladly distracts her as best he can for as long as possible. They make it through drinks and appetizers. Then, while waiting for their meals to arrive, Daphne blurts out, “I can’t stop thinking about it logically.”

He isn’t sure what she means, so he echoes enquiringly, ”Logically?” 

She leans in and explains softly, “I’ve studied strokes - cerebrovascular accidents, to be more precise. I’ve studied them, I’ve learned them by heart theoretically and practically. I’ve seen them happen right before my eyes. I’ve worked with patients, I’ve treated them, I’ve supported their recovery, or, I’ve informed their families when it all ended.”

She takes a deep breath. “I can’t stop seeing it like that. My head is full of academic insight and professional recollections... it’s like she’s just another case study, or patient, and not my mother. I can’t quite get my head around the fact that this is happening to  _me,_ personally. That this happened to my mom.”

The waitress arrives with their food, sets it down, asks how they’re doing, and offers to bring more drinks. Brian senses Daphne is in dire need of more alcohol, so he asks that the waitress keep the drinks coming. This is probably not the recommended course of action - it’s certainly not what Honeycutt would do, nor Aunt Meg, nor Jennifer or Deb or anyone else. Deb would probably whack him around the head for plying Daphne with drinks at a time like this. Brian takes some small comfort in knowing that this  _is,_ probably, what Justin would do. He also suspects if he checked with Cynthia, that she would also offer her endorsement. So it’s not entirely terrible, is it?

At the very least, Daphne seems pleased to have another drink in her hand. As soon as they’re alone again, she confides, “I feel like I’m dealing with this as Dr. Chanders. I’m seeing my mom as another patient. I’m not processing this as her daughter. Not yet.”

“Isn’t this one of those five stages I always hear about?”

Daphne snorts. “Arguably, yes. I don’t know... I feel like I might be immune to the five stages.”

She rattles them off with ease: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. She does so with a dubious expression on her face. “I’ve seen countless patients and their loved ones go through those stages. I know they’re real. I’m not claiming against their existence... I just don’t know that that’s the shape my grief is going to take.”

Then she laughs a little and, after taking another sip of her cocktail, murmurs, “Do me a favour and pretend I didn’t just sound like a fucking community center therapy brochure.”

“Done,” Brian says. Daphne smiles gratefully at him then returns to her cocktail. His phone starts vibrating in his pocket; he checks it, silences it, and stows it away, all while assuming his best poker face.

It doesn’t work on Daphne, who instantly asks, “Was that Justin?”

He’s impressed by how perceptive she is. “I’ll talk to him later.”

“I’m sorry I’m making you lie to him.” Daphne winces. “I feel like shit about it.”

“Don’t,” he urges. “He’ll understand.”

“I don’t want to disrupt whatever he’s doing,” she explains, swirling her glass, her gaze set on the swishing liquor. “Also, I feel like... I feel like this is enough. Having you here. I know I could call him, or my girlfriends, or even Jen or Molly, and I know any one of them would happily show up. But something about this is turning me into a total recluse. I don’t want anyone around.”

Brian understands. Daphne smiles at him - a slight, fleeting smile - and says, “Well, anyone except you. I’m really glad you’re here, Bri. I like the whole... nurturing without being nurturing thing you have going on.”

“Thanks,” he says, glad for the reassurance. He watches as she sets down her cocktail and digs into her meal. She still seems unfamiliar, compared to the Daphne he’s known and adored for the past eight years, but he thinks he’s figuring this one out. She’s more like him than he could have ever anticipated, and for some reason, that’s the most reassuring thing of all. 


	4. Chapter 4

The light keeps getting in her eyes.

Daphne didn’t think to bring sunglasses, not to a  _funeral,_ so she spends the first ten minutes averting her gaze downwards, away from the harsh sun. When it finally disappears behind the gathering clouds, she can’t decide whether she’s glad or not. Her eyes don’t hurt anymore, but now she actually has to pay attention to what’s happening.

She’s at her mother’s funeral, that’s what’s happening, and it’s horrible. There are white roses everywhere - her mother’s favourite. The scent of them lingers in the air. It’s kind of sickening. After today, Daphne doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to enjoy white roses ever again. She’s also rapidly developing a pretty profound case of claustrophobia. The gravesite is surrounded by dozens upon dozens of guests, most of them unknown to her. It makes her feel lonely, standing amongst a thick crowd of strangers, which she thinks is a strange way to feel given that this is her mom’s funeral. Shouldn’t she know these people? Shouldn’t she feel close to them? She has trouble putting names to more than half a dozen of the faces surrounding her. How did these people even know her mother? And who was her mother to these people?

Daphne feels ill. The scent of the roses is cloying and the crowd is stifling.

A small, childish part of her wants to make a run for it, but she doubts her legs would carry her far. Plus, there is no way in hell she can run in these heels. She can barely even walk in them as it is. Fuck Aunt Meg and her bullshit dress standards - now Daphne’s stuck in shoes that render her practically immobile and make her feet hurt like all hell. As if today wasn’t already awful enough.

Perhaps the worst part is that people keep making fleeting eye contact with her. They offer sympathetic smiles and mouth their condolences:  _I’m sorry, we’re here for you, we love you._ Each time it happens, it gets more and more under her skin. She doesn’t know these people. She doesn’t need their sympathy. She has no idea how to respond - smile back? Mouth something in reply? Nod? Confused and overwhelmed, she does nothing. Hopefully they’ll forgive her that, on today of all days, but it doesn’t matter much if they don’t. They’re strangers. They mean nothing to her.

She keeps tuning in and out of what the pastor is saying. It’s hard to focus. Her head is swimming and her heart hurts; it has since late last night, when she woke from a dream, in which she and her mother were walking down the beach together, hand-in-hand. Daphne can’t place the memory with much accuracy - she thinks it was from when she was six or seven, she knows it was a family holiday, but was it Maine or Rhode Island? What were they talking about? Was her father there? There’s so much she’s forgotten. The pastor reminds her of bits and pieces - her mother’s passionate love of ballet, her athletic accomplishments throughout her college years, her philanthropic work... it all sounds vaguely familiar, but ultimately, abstract. There is nothing in the pastor’s speech that makes her think  _mom._ Even with her family surrounding her, even with Brian holding her hand, she feels totally alone. Defeated, too - she never knew her mom the way she wanted to, she’s never going to. She hasn’t been mourning properly. She doesn’t even know if she wants to, but she wishes she could understand why it doesn’t seem like she needs to. She still hasn’t cried. Her attention is so scattered that she can’t even pay full attention to her own mother’s  _funeral._

Repulsed, she thinks to herself: _What the fuck is wrong with me?_

The sun reappears, spreading light over Allegheny Cemetery. Daphne doesn’t avert her gaze or shield her eyes this time. It’s a welcome distraction from the guilt, the exhaustion, the heartache. So is Brian’s hand in hers. She leans into him a little. He squeezes her hand and she feels a little less wretched, if only for a moment.

But then it’s time for the casket to be lowered into the grave, and it really hits her.

It really, really hits her - her mother is gone.

She’s  _gone._

Daphne feels a sob rising up in her throat, but it never surfaces, because she can’t breathe. She can’t breathe. Brian lets go of her hand, then steps behind her and wraps his arms around her. She sinks into his embrace and tries to breathe, inhaling slowly and carefully. Then she looks across at her father; tears are streaming down his face. She’s never seen her father cry. It’s like she’s been shot right in the heart. She wants to run to him and hug him, but something is stopping her. Maybe it’s that she can’t remember the last time she hugged her father. All he offered her this morning was a brief peck on the forehead. She watches him cry, her heartache growing until it’s agonising; she realises, like a kick to the gut, that he’s just another one of this crowd of strangers. They don’t know each other at all.

The casket has almost completed its journey into the earth. Daphne doesn’t want to see the end of it. She turns around and hides her face in Brian’s coat. He draws her in close and kisses the top of her head. She closes her eyes and keeps her face hidden, but she can’t avoid hearing it: when the mechanism stops. It’s done. It’s over. Her mother is really gone.

The sob that was stuck in her throat escapes. Brian’s embrace grows tighter as she weeps. She tries to stop, but she can’t. Her tears seem to be endless. She’s spent so much time wishing she would cry, wishing she could mourn properly, and now that she is, she wants it to be over and done with. It’s not cathartic at all - it’s only making her hurt worse.

Eventually, distantly, she hears someone announcing it’s time to move on to the family function. It sounds so ludicrously formal. Daphne wants no part of it whatsoever. She wants to run, escape, and find somewhere to hide. Preferably, somewhere where there are no strangers surrounding her, nor any white roses.

After a while, Brian squeezes her and murmurs, “Ready to go?”

“Give me a minute,” Daphne whispers. She pulls back a little and starts wiping her face. Her hands come away stained with streaks of mascara. The ache in her chest is joined by a sinking sense of frustration. 

The other guests are dispersing. Suddenly, over Brian’s shoulder, she catches a glimpse of Jen, who smiles sadly and mouths,  _I love you._ It’s the first time all day that that has worked. Daphne smiles and mouths back,  _I love you, too._ The ache in her chest intensifies, briefly, then sort of fades a little. She looks up at Brian and says softly, “I’m ready.”

*

Once they’re back at her father’s house, it takes her a good twenty minutes to make herself presentable again.

‘Presentable’ is another one of Aunt Meg’s favoured words and Daphne has been urged,  _ever_ so kindly, to make herself so. She cries a little more, washes her face, then carefully reapplies her makeup, taking care not to appear too ‘showy’. Daphne thinks it’s bullshit, frankly, that she has to take such care with her appearance on today of all days, but it’s not worth butting heads with Aunt Meg. That will only serve to further complicate this whole miserable experience.

When she emerges from the bathroom, she avoids making eye contact with anyone. She makes a beeline for Jen and Brian, who are huddled by the fireplace, immersed in conversation. It stops abruptly as she approaches.

Daphne gives them both a look. “Talking about me?”

“Of course,” Brian deadpans with intense sarcasm. “You are the center of our universes, after all.”

“Brian!” Jen slaps his arm, looking utterly appalled. “What is the matter with you?”

Jen may be horrified by his teasing, but Daphne isn’t. She couldn’t be more relieved, in fact, that he’s acting like his usual smartass self. She grins at Brian and loops her arm through his. “I know full well that I’m not the center of your universe. I think we all know that my best friend holds that illustrious title.”

Brian smiles at her and hands her a glass of wine from on top the mantle. Daphne can feel Jen eyeing them both critically - especially Brian - so she smiles reassuringly and says, “See how he doesn’t even try to deny it anymore? They’re so in love. Isn’t that right, Bri?”

He simply rolls his eyes and takes a drink from his glass of whiskey. This brings a smile to Jen’s face, although she still sighs and shakes her head. She then gazes at Daphne with concern and asks tenderly, “How are you, honey?”

Daphne shrugs. There’s no clear-cut answer to that question. On the spectrum of ‘fine’to ‘not fine’,she doesn’t fall in any one place - she’s all over the map right now.

Jen steps closer and places her hand on Daphne’s shoulder. “If you need anything, you just let me know. I’m here for you.”

“Thanks, Jen.”

“Mother Taylor to the rescue,” Brian drawls, smirking to himself. Daphne admires how he has her so totally figured out - he knows when she needs him to be his snarky, sarcastic self, and he knows when she needs a more conventionally compassionate incarnation of Brian Kinney. As she giggles, Brian snickers, and Jen sighs wearily. Then, with no small amount of regret, Jen says, ”I actually have to rush off. I have a meeting that I just can’t cancel. I’m so sorry, sweetie.”

Daphne smiles at Jen and shrugs. “It’s okay. I’ll see you soon.”

“Yes, you will,” Jen insists. “Call me. You can come over for a nice dinner. And you?”

She looks at Brian and warns, “Behave yourself.”

“Unlikely,” he says, smiling warmly at Jen. She kisses his cheek, then turns to Daphne and wraps her up in a big hug. Daphne returns it eagerly, soaking up every last second of Jen’s affection. It helps quite a bit.

What doesn’t help at all is what follows: being hounded by her mother’s relatives, friends, colleagues, and acquaintances, all of whom feel compelled to corner Daphne and smother her with condolences. Their outpourings of sympathy make her feel like she’s suffocating. Plus, they’re just plain rude - every time they approach, she has to explain (fifty times over, no less) that Brian is Justin’s partner. This is met with a lot of raised eyebrows - and that’s just for starters. There are also blank stares, pursed lips, flushed faces, and tensed shoulders. Daphne has no earthly idea how Brian stays sane through all of it. He simply smiles politely as though they’re all perfectly pleasant people. The entire time, he remains by her side, steadfast and collected, even when one of her father’s friends responds to Daphne introducing Brian with a stiff, “Yes, I believe I’ve heard of you.”

And that’s the end of that conversation - the asshole turns on his heel and leaves. Daphne wants to chase after him and thump him, but she hasn’t the energy nor the audacity. Brian snorts and says into his drink, “My reputation precedes me.”

“I’m sorry,” Daphne sighs. “I shouldn’t have brought you to Homophobe Central. Everyone here is extra strength conservative.”

Brian just shrugs. She glances around the room, searching for anyone she might actually want to talk to, but she comes up empty. Then she sees the very last person she wants to talk to approaching. Daphne turns to Brian and says in a rush, “I’m so sorry, I had no idea their dark overlord was going to be here.”

He laughs a little. “Who’s their dark overlord? Introduce me, I want to meet him.”

“You already have.” Daphne bites her lip. “Did Justin maybe ever mention that his dad and my dad are kind of... business associates? And country club pals? And that my parents took Craig’s side when he and Jen divorced?”

She watches guiltily as Brian glances past her. His face turns stony as soon as he sees Craig approaching. She squeezes his hand and whispers, “I totally forgot, I’m really sorry, I-”

“Don’t be sorry,” Brian murmurs, his face softening as he meets her gaze. “He may be the dark overlord of Homophobe Central, but I’m the dark overlord of that which he fears the most - Fag Central.”

Daphne can’t help herself - she bursts out laughing. It’s attracting attention, the wrong kind too - lots of confused, concerned stares - but she doesn’t care. Looking very pleased with himself, Brian smiles at her and says, “Never fear. We can handle this.”

Then he places his hand on her shoulder and steers her around to face Craig. Daphne feels tense at the mere sight of him; it’s made ten times worse when he touches her arm - ew! - and says, “Daphne, honey, I’m so sorry. I was very sad to hear of your loss.”

“Thank you, Mr. Taylor,” she says, partly out of habit, but mostly because she’s just realised that her father is watching the exchange from across the room. Daphne stands up a little straighter, knowing she ought to be on her best behaviour.

God, this is all such  _bullshit._  

Craig smiles politely at her, then glances at Brian with unmasked disdain. With an irritated sigh, he returns his attention to Daphne. “I suppose Justin is around here somewhere?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your concern,” Brian says coolly, taking a swig of his whiskey.

“I wasn’t asking  _you_ ,” Craig snaps, giving Brian the filthiest look imaginable. It sends up a flare of defensiveness in Daphne. It continues to burn bright as Craig asks her, in an utterly patronising tone, “Daphne, is my son here?”

Before Daphne can stop herself, she retorts bitterly, “He’s not your son.”

Craig’s jaw tightens. “Excuse me?”

“Justin doesn’t consider himself your son,” she says. “And you certainly don’t act like his father. So he’s not your son.”

“You made damn sure of that,” Brian adds.

“You sure did,” Daphne agrees.

They glance at each other, smile, then simultaneously pin Craig with identically hateful looks. He scoffs, shakes his head, then strides away angrily. Daphne grins up at Brian. “Justin would be proud.”

“He certainly will be,” Brian says, smiling. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but then he stops and stares past Daphne with an unreadable expression. Daphne turns around to see what’s grabbed his attention and comes face-to-face with her father.

He stares coldly at Brian, then frowns at her. “Daphne, a word?”

*

She’s led into her father’s study, like a little kid who’s been caught misbehaving. They’re barely through the door when her father rounds on her and begins his lecture, which is a veritable dissertation in the virtues of Craig Taylor.

Apparently, Craig Taylor has always been a good friend to her parents. In fact, Craig Taylor is as good as family. Craig Taylor is an asset to her father’s business. Craig Taylor is someone her father values and trusts. Craig Taylor was very kind to come along today and offer his sympathies. Craig Taylor deserved better than being dismissed for ‘no good reason’. 

Daphne wonders if this  _amazing_ Craig Taylor her father won’t stop talking about is one and the same as the Craig Taylor who treated her two closest friends like shit. Does her father have any idea that the man he’s defending is an abusive, hateful, spineless lowlife? Isn’t that reason enough to not want him anywhere near her? She especially doesn’t want him touching her arm or calling her ‘honey’. That’s more kindness than he’s shown Justin in  _eight years_. Being on the receiving end of it felt like a massive betrayal. Her father suggests that she could have thanked Craig, but Daphne suspects that if she had, she would never be able to forgive herself.

She’s emotionally overloaded and just about ready to crumble, but she can’t let this one go. She won’t. She refuses to. So Daphne summons all the strength she can, and says, “He isn’t who you think he is.”

Her father stares at her, then drops his head and sighs. “Daphne,  _please.”_

“Please, what? I’m trying to explain to you-”

“Craig is my friend.”

Daphne has never stood up to her father. She’s never really needed to, until now. She doesn’t really know where to begin, she just knows that it hurts to hear him say  _Craig is my friend_ as though that’s the solution to all of this. Trying to keep the tremble out of her voice, she says, ”Justin is my  _best_  friend.”

This doesn’t seem to make much of an impression. Her father simply sighs and stares at her cluelessly, as though he doesn’t understand how her friendship with Justin can possibly have any bearing on this situation. She mentally adds this to the long, sprawling list of moments labelled:  _Times my parents proved they don’t know or understand me one bit._  It returns her to that feeling of hopelessness that’s been eating away at her for days now. Fortunately, it hasn’t devoured her whole - she still has some fight left in her.

Daphne takes a deep breath, then continues as steadily as she can manage, ”You have no idea the amount of pain Craig caused Justin. And Brian and Jen too. Three of the people I care most about, and he’s hurt them all, horrifically and shamelessly so. He-”

Her father doesn’t even let her finish. He raises his hand to silence her and says, “I can’t deal with this today.”

It has an air of finality to it. He has commanded an end to this conversation and that’s that, apparently. Daphne feels her fatigue triple. She’s so done with today and all of its bullshit. She’s so done with her father and his ludicrous defense of Justin’s asshole father. She’s so done with everything right now. She stares down at the floorboards, wishing she could sink right through them, disappear, reduce herself to nothingness.

“Yeah, me neither,” she murmurs, accepting defeat.

Her father sighs shakily and responds, “Your mother wouldn’t want us fighting, anyway.”

He stares at the wall where an array of family photos are hanging in expensive frames. Daphne follows his gaze; he’s staring right at the picture of Evelyn in her wedding dress, delicately cradling a bouquet of white roses. Daphne is suddenly returned to that moment at the funeral, watching helplessly as her father wept. She feels sick with grief, and not just her own, but his as well.

She honestly can’t remember the last time they hugged, so she doesn’t feel right embracing him now. Affection was never really his thing, anyway. Daphne settles for touching his arm and saying gently, “Dad, I’m really sorry.”

He nods, gaze averted. Even with her father standing right in front of her, she feels totally alone. Daphne swallows and adds, “Next time you’re in town, give me a call, okay?”

He nods again, still avoiding her gaze. With nothing else to say, Daphne decides to leave. She leaves him alone in his study, closing the door gently behind her to give him some privacy. Then she returns to Brian, grabs his sleeve, and, as he turns to face her, she pleads, “Get me out of here?”


	5. Chapter 5

Brian takes Daphne to a diner on the way home. Not  _the_ diner, just some random place off the highway where there’s some semblance of privacy to be found. He can tell that Daphne’s not in the mood for company or comfort, at least not the kind that will be on offer over on Liberty Avenue. He suspects it will be some time before she’s ready for Deb’s brand of company and comfort.

They must make a depressing spectacle, both of them in their funeral clothes, sticking out like sore thumbs in the garish surroundings of the diner. It’s a highly saturated hellscape of neon booths, glossy yellow tiles, and loudly wallpapered walls. It’s enough to induce a migraine. Still, they’re alone here. That counts for a lot right now, since Brian suspects that’s exactly what Daphne needs - isolation. She sure as shit didn’t seem receptive to the hoards of mourners at the funeral or the reception. He’s been watching her cautiously all day: holding herself together, riddled with tension, reacting to everyone but him and Jennifer as though they were intruders. 

The worst part by far, though, was seeing her fall to bits at the cemetery. Brian heard it before he saw it; he was standing beside her, as the coffin was being lowered into the grave, when suddenly her breath hitched. He heard it catch, noisily, and instantly knew what was going to happen. He acted on instinct, moving to comfort her the same way he would Justin during one of his anxiety attacks, by wrapping her up in his arms. It wasn’t long before she was hiding in his embrace, sobbing and shaking. He’d been waiting for that. He hadn’t known for sure whether it would happen, but he’d been waiting nonetheless, if only so he could be somewhat prepared for the fallout.

‘Somewhat prepared’ is probably the best way to describe his tenuous grasp on this whole thing. It occurs to Brian that he doesn’t know Daphne as well as he ought; he adores her, always has, and he’s aware of the essentials. To his dismay, they haven’t really spent much time together since he moved to New York. Truth be told, he misses the friendship they forged whilst he was still in Pittsburgh without Justin. For a while there, they were really close. Then he moved away and they grew apart.

And so now he’s left relying on instinct and semi-educated guesses to figure out how to help her. Fortunately, it seems to be working. She seems to be returning to him bit by bit, pulling herself back together into a Daphne he can recognise.

Even so, he wishes he knew her better. He wishes he had some sort of guidebook to this whole awful situation. He would have, were he allowed to call Justin, but Daphne remains insistent that she doesn’t want to drag him back home from all the way over West. Brian understands. He feels guilty as shit, but he understands, and he knows she’s dead on: if Justin finds out about this, he will come racing back to Pittsburgh without a second thought. It’s not that Justin would mind - Brian knows he would happily do anything for Daphne - but evidently, Daphne does mind. And ultimately, as far as Brian is presently concerned, what Daphne wants, Daphne gets.

As their food arrives, so does a text from Justin: 

 _Why are you dodging my calls? Are you mad at me? :(_  

Brian feels struck with guilt. He looks across the table at Daphne, who is staring glumly at her fries, her eyes still red and damp. It fucking sucks lying to Justin, but there’s not a chance in hell that he’s going to betray Daphne. His resolve strengthened, he texts back:

**Not mad - stuck in meetings. Talk soon, I promise. Love you.**

Brian watches his phone, waiting for Justin’s response, but it never comes.

*

Leaving the family reception early was a good idea. Daphne doesn’t feel great about it, but there was nothing and no-one there for her. If she’d stayed, it would have been more of the same: unwanted sympathy from distant relatives and total strangers, guilt trips from Aunt Meg, and not knowing how to deal with her father, the one-man fanclub for Craig Taylor. No, there definitely wasn’t anything worth sticking around for. She’s better off away from all of that. Maybe she’s a coward for running out, maybe everyone’s going to think she’s a heartless bitch, but at this point, she’s too exhausted to care.

She likes the company and comfort here, alone with Brian. This isn’t draining, like it was back there. Funny how she found herself feeling so isolated and lonely with all those people surrounding her, yet she feels totally fine right now with just him. 

Sitting here with him, she’s reminded of a conversation she had with Justin years earlier. She was visiting him for the first time since Brian moved to New York. After showing off their new apartment and gossiping incessantly about all the reunion/moving in together/celebratory “we’re New Yorkers” sex they’d been having, Justin pulled his head out of the gutter and confided that everything was ’really great’. Looking thrilled to bits, he confessed,  _It’s different when it’s just the two of us. I feel..._ she remembers him laughing and looking kind of embarrassed, then admitting,  _I feel peaceful. I think he does too._

That’s how she feels right now. Peaceful. There is still grief festering inside her, but it’s quieted for the timebeing. And Brian is different one-on-one, that’s for sure. There’s a striking difference between how she’s seen him behave with everyone around, and how he’s acting now. She’s missed seeing him like this – it’s been years since they’ve spent this much time together. She regrets that. When it was just her and Brian left in Pittsburgh after Justin’s departure, they had a good thing going for a while. Not just good; _great._

Pained, she wonders: _Why didn't we try harder to keep it?_

Nursing his coffee, Brian asks, ”When are you going back to work?”

“They gave me a month,” Daphne sighs, pulling a face. “They must be worried I’m damaged or something.”

She watches his reaction carefully, but she can’t figure out whether he seems more amused or concerned. He’s still tricky to read; all she has to work with is the slightest quirk of his lips and his brow furrowing a little as he asks, “Are you?”

Leaning in towards him, she counters, “Do I look damaged?”

“No,” he says, smiling, “But there’s a difference between looking damaged and feeling damaged.”

“And a bigger difference still between feeling damaged and being damaged.” Daphne forces a smile. “I don’t feel damaged whatsoever. What does that say about me? My mom just died and I...”

Her head is starting to hurt again. Damaged is a big, scary word, and she doesn’t want to think it applies to her in any way, shape, or form. But what other word is there for someone like her? The last three days have made all of her failings glaringly apparent. She can’t mourn properly, she never knew her mother, she barely knows her father, and she abandoned her family at the worst possible moment. She  _should_ feel damaged. She should feel incredibly, irreparably, irredeemably damaged. 

Daphne rests her splitting head in her hands and laments, “I am probably incredibly fucked up and a terrible person.”

“You’re not a terrible person,” Brian says, a hint of laughter in his voice. She looks up and catches a spark of it in his eyes. “Far from it.”

She props her chin atop her hands and regards him curiously. “How do you know?”

She thinks to herself, bitterly, for a guilt-stricken moment, that Brian doesn’t really  _know_ her. Maybe he did during their pseudo best-friendship during Justin’s absence, but that was so long ago. Daphne doesn’t think she’s that person anymore. She’s certainly not that person right now.

She feels sick with herself for thinking such things after everything he’s done for her, but now that it’s occurred to her, she can’t shake the thought. Before all of this happened - before he was given a crash course in her piss poor grieving and the shitty dynamics of her fucked up family - what did he even really know about her? 

He’s always been good to her, that much is true. He’s never made her feel like she’s simply Justin’s best friend; he’s always treated her as though she were his friend in her own right, which Daphne appreciates to no end. Their friendship isn’t cursory or perfunctory like the ones she shares with the other people in Justin’s life. It’s a good friendship, sometimes a great one, and it’s definitely one which she wouldn’t want to do without. But still, she has to wonder (even if it does induce sickeningly intense guilt), does he know her? And is he really qualified to classify her as damaged or not damaged; terrible or not terrible?

Brian sets down his coffee cup and folds his arms together, then leans forward on them. Quietly, he imparts, “Terrible people don’t do the things you do.”

Finding herself in need of concrete examples, Daphne asks, “Like what?”

She hopes against hope that it doesn’t sound like a challenge. She would hate herself if she came across as critical or ungrateful at a time like this. Fortunately, her question doesn’t seem to bother him. He thinks for a moment, then says softly, ”Like sticking by Justin’s side unconditionally. Like how you were there for him after...”

After the bashing. She knows he doesn’t want to say it. She doesn’t want to make him say it. So Daphne supplies, gently, “After.”

That’s all that needs to be said. Brian’s gaze grows a fraction warmer; it reads of gratitude. He leans in closer and continues, “Like how you held Jennifer’s hand through it all. Like how you showed up to the hospital with flowers all the time.”

That surprises her. She had almost forgotten the flowers - how is it that he remembered? Puzzled, she asks, “You remember that?”

He nods once, staring into his coffee as he recalls, “Yellow tulips, right? In p-”

“Pink ribbon,” she finishes, knowing those were going to be his next words.

Brian shrugs, as if it’s not important to him, but it must be. He smiles slightly and says, “A terrible person wouldn’t have bothered.”

So much of that time has been reduced to a painful blur, but suddenly, it comes pouring back into her consciousness. The days Justin spent dangling between life and death were the darkest days she’s ever known. She remembers waking early every morning, picking tulips from the garden beds under the oak tree in the yard, and wrapping them up in lengths of pink satin ribbon, which always took forever because her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Then she’d head off to the hospital and sit by Justin’s bedside, waiting for her best friend to pull through and return to her.

“They were supposed to be for prom night,” she recalls softly, remembering the sensation of glossy ribbon slipping between her fingers at the fabric store, where she ended up buying an entire spool of the stuff. “I was going to weave them through my hair - kind of a Grecian look, you know? But then when I was getting ready, my mom came and sat down with me and she started doing my hair for me. She hadn’t done that in years... not since I was really little. So I let her. She said it was kind of like how she’d had her hair styled for her prom. It wasn’t what I wanted, but that didn’t matter... it was just nice to have her be there for me like that.”

“You looked beautiful,” Brian says, smiling tenderly.

“So did you and Justin.” Daphne brightens instantly and grins at Brian. “That was so romantic.”

“Ridiculously so,” he agrees, returning her grin. “I’m glad I’m not the only one who remembers it.”

There’s the faintest trace of pain lingering within those words. Daphne reaches across and touches his wrist lightly, like he did this morning at the cemetery - grazing his fingers across the cuff of her coat sleeve, like an offering, which she quickly accepted, locking her fingers between his needily. He does the same thing now. He’s not as fast as she was, but it feels similarly urgent. Daphne squeezes his hand and offers him a reassuring smile. 

They might not know each other well enough to pass intensive fact-checks, but she does know that dwelling on prom night isn’t going to help either one of them right now. So, giving his hand another comforting squeeze, she moves to change the topic. “So, what’s with the ring?”

“What ring?”

“Your wedding ring.”

Brian lifts up his left hand and waves it from side to side. “What wedding ring?”

She laughs a little and prompts knowingly, “The one you were wearing when you showed up at the hospital. The one that you’ve had stowed in your pocket ever since.”

He looks surprised. Daphne smiles at him and explains, “You keep touching your breast pocket, like you’re worried it’s going to go missing.”

The waitress chooses this precise moment to arrive with the coffee pot in hand. Daphne lets go of Brian’s hand and draws back, murmuring her thanks to the waitress for the fresh cup of coffee. As the waitress departs and Daphne takes a needy sip of the steaming cup, Brian remarks quietly, “I didn’t think you’d notice. You were...”

He frowns and falls silent. Somewhat amused, Daphne fills in, “A total mess? A catastrophic wreck?”

After a contemplative pause, Brian smiles and agrees, “Pretty much, yeah.”

She smacks his arm lightly. “Okay, I was, but don’t forget - I’m trained to remain focused and perceptive in the most challenging of circumstances. I totally noticed the ring.”

Brian takes a gulp of coffee, watching her intently over the cup. Daphne is tempted to jump in and say  _don’t worry, it’s none of my business_ or something else along those lines, but she decides to wait him out. He’s surprised her on more than one occasion this week with his openness; perhaps he’ll continue to do so.

And indeed he does, eventually. Brian places his cup down and retrieves the ring from his breast pocket and rolls it between his thumb and forefinger. He watches the motion of it for a while, then turns his gaze to her and admits, “I miss him. Sometimes when I do, I wear it.”

Then he arches an eyebrow at her and warns, “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll have to kill you.”

“You wouldn’t,” she teases.

“Try me,” he drawls, smirking a little.

Daphne laughs and promises, “Don’t worry. It’s going in the vault.”

Brian smiles gratefully at her, then carefully slips the ring back into his pocket. “The vault must be awfully full at this point. What has Sunshine been telling you lately?”

“All sorts of things,” Daphne giggles. “The most recent installment was when you guys went dancing. Justin loved that.”

“It was nice,” Brian agrees lightly, but there’s something in his voice to suggest ‘nice’ is only scraping the surface. 

“Justin certainly made it sound  _very_  nice. You’re lucky - I haven’t been dancing in forever!” Daphne laughs, shaking her head. For months now, it’s been work, work, work, and more work, and then some. The last few days have been a ceaseless rapid-fire alternation between mourning and worrying about not mourning properly. Maybe it’s the guilt clouding her, but she can’t remember the last time she had proper fun.

“Let’s go, then,” Brian suggests. The idea instantly appeals to her. Daphne can’t imagine anything better than dancing her troubles away... but then again, wouldn’t that cement her status as a terrible human being?

As though he’s read her mind, Brian insists, “Don’t think about whether it’s ‘allowed’. Think of it as a way of celebrating how terrible of a person you definitely aren’t. Or, how much it would piss Aunt Meg off.”

“That’s a good point,” Daphne muses. 

“We can go anywhere you like,” Brian adds, clearly attempting to sweeten the pot. “Even one of those godawful hellholes where straight people congregate.”

As Daphne ponders his very tempting offer, an idea occurs to her. “I know of somewhere that’s a nice middle ground. It’s this club downtown - great drinks, great music. Admittedly, it’s mostly straight people, but it’s queer-friendly. They’re pretty big on that.”

“Sounds good.”

It really does. This is the kind of thing she could only ever count on him or Justin for - nobody else would offer to take her dancing right now. Her girlfriends would have had her bundled up in bed hours ago. Jen wouldn’t be as pushy as Chelsea or Grace, but she definitely wouldn’t be carting Daphne off to go dancing. No, this is decidedly Brian and Justin territory, and Daphne couldn’t be gladder for it. Plus, tomorrow Brian will be flying back to New York - why waste his last night in Pittsburgh in some random diner, or on an early night?

As they’re leaving the booth, Brian fetches her coat and helps her into it. It’s as though he’s read her mind all over again; as they make their way to the car, he wraps an arm around her shoulders and suggests, ”You should come back to New York with me tomorrow.”

“Really?” Daphne turns to look at him, wondering if he’s serious, or if he’s simply being nice. 

It seems to be the former. Of course it’s the former - Brian isn’t one to pander to anyone with pity or insincere gestures. He shrugs and says, “You have time off, right? Why not spend it somewhere else? Justin will be back in a few days. He’ll want to be there for you. You can move your way further up the nurturing spectrum.”

A little amused, but mostly just touched, Daphne smiles at him. “You’re not sick of me yet?”

He smiles at her warmly and assures her, “Not a bit.” 


	6. Chapter 6

Straight clubs are such utter bullshit. They are so far removed from Brian’s idea of a good time it’s not even funny.

In his estimation, they typically range from  _boring as fuck_ to  _infuriatingly tedious._ They’re always so fucking sanitary. That is, apart from that vague edge of segregation that permeates most of them, reminding queers that they’re not wanted there unless it’s for entertainment value or ornamental purposes. Or to fill some PC quota. Yeah, straight clubs are bullshit. Brian avoids them like the plague, except if it’s for work and he’s wooing clients who have their vanilla hearts set on the hottest hetero joint in town. On those occasions, he goes along with a smile plastered on his face and tolerates the insufferable surroundings. But that’s the only exception; other than wooing his blander clientele, there is no other reason to set foot in breeder venues. 

At least, there hasn’t been, until tonight. Tonight, Brian has added a second addendum to his rule against entering straight clubs. The first addendum  _(attending straight clubs is permissible when seeking to gain professional advantage)_  has been joined by another, possibly more important, addendum:  _attending straight clubs is permissible - and even quite enjoyable - when accompanied by Daphne._

To its credit, the club she has brought him to is trying its hardest to appear inclusive. But at the end of the day, it is essentially an illusion - and a weak one at that. There’s not another fag to be found in this place, which would suggest the club’s grand experiment of warm and fuzzy inclusivity has failed. It’s also terribly predictable. There’s no excitement, no spectacle. It’s tiresomely run-of-the-mill and alarmingly wholesome.

On any other night, he would be bored shitless with these drab surroundings. Tonight, however, it doesn’t matter how drab or wholesome this place is. It’s where Daphne wants to be, and what Daphne wants, Daphne gets.

And so he buys her drinks, watching her worries fade away more and more with every glass. She didn’t lie - the drinks are good,  _really_ good. The music is alright, if not a little too vanilla. It’s good enough to dance to, at least, and so dance they do. For the first time in days, the old Daphne makes a proper appearance. He’s managed to coax her out a few times, but only fleetingly so. His entirely inappropriate sense of humour and potent doses of flirting only went so far. She would always retreat back into herself, becoming lost in moroseness and fragility - lost to him, lost to the world, lost to herself. It’s not that he wants to rush her or glaze over the fact that she’s just suffered a serious loss; Brian is all too familiar with how complicated it is to lose a parent. He wouldn’t dare deny her the chance to work through it in whatever way she feels she needs to. What he can’t stand is seeing her bound - painfully so - by guilt, obligation, and regret. That’s what he’s trying to cure right now in this very questionable way of his (fuck, Jennifer would tear him to  _shreds_  right now, if she could see the two of them drinking to excess and dancing with abandon). Fuck what’s allowed, fuck what’s proper, fuck what’s expected of her. He wants her to let go of all that. 

And let go she does. The Daphne he’s known and adored for eight years returns to him, freed from her binds, bubbling with laughter, glowing with joy. The sharp streak of concern that he’s been carrying around for days leaves him. His protective urges vanish. There’s no need for them anymore; she’s going to be fine. Maybe not immediately, but soon enough. He knows this because it’s right in front of him, plainly visible: she’s lit from within, brighter than bright, shining with happiness and hope. The only thing left to do is best that, so Brian spins her, watching with relief as she grins, listening happily to her laughter spilling all around them. He prefers it to the music.

 _She’s always been resilient,_ he thinks to himself contentedly. _She’s going to be more than fine._

*

 _There’s good hurt and bad hurt,_ Daphne thinks to herself, rather hazily. Everything is a little hazy through her alcohol-induced fog.

She likes the alcohol-induced fog. The alcohol-induced fog is almost as good a friend to her as Brian is. Well, maybe not quite, because Brian is an  _amazing_  friend. Daphne has always adored him, but tonight, her affection has sky-rocketed. She tries to imagine how miserable and stressful today would have been without him by her side and cringes at the thought.

There’s not long to meditate on this, though; Daphne is returned to her tipsy contemplation of good hurt and bad hurt. Good hurt: the ache in her jaw, from laughing all night long. Bad hurt: the burning and pulsing pain in her feet, from standing almost all day long and dancing for hours in absurdly high heels, and brand new ones at that. The dancing was awesome. The heels were a colossal mistake. This is becoming more and more apparent to Daphne moment by moment. Her alcohol-induced fog begins to clear on the ride home, gradually returning full sensation to her feet. At first, it feels like they’re being dissected without so much as a drop of anaesthesia to numb the pain. By the time she and Brian are climbing the stairs, hot knives are being drilled into her feet from all angles. Why did she listen to Aunt Meg? Why did she buy into all of that bullshit? Daphne vows to herself: _Never again. It’s so not worth it._

They’re halfway up the stairs when Daphne decides she can’t take it any longer.

“Hold up,” Daphne says, grabbing Brian’s arm for support as she stops to remove her shoes. She whimpers as they come off, leaving her feet marred with red-raw stripes and blisters. “Ugh - remind me to incinerate these tomorrow.”

Brian glances down and all but recoils. “The shoes or your feet? Neither seem salvageable.”

“Shut up,” she laughs, hobbling forward. Brian wraps an arm around her waist and helps her up the stairs. “Although - ow - I see your point. Speaking as a medical professional, though, I think amputation would be a wiser choice. Incineration? Too risky.”

Brian laughs and takes another horrified look at her wounded feet, noting, “Your Aunt Meg is clearly a sadist.”

“Aunt Meg is a total bitch,” comes an amused call from the landing.

Daphne and Brian stop in their tracks momentarily to share a confused glance. Is that Justin? Daphne’s first thought is that Brian must have called him, but from the bewildered expression on Brian’s face, it’s very apparent that he didn’t.

As soon as she’s recovered from her shock, Daphne runs up the remaining stairs. Mutilated feet be damned - she wants to see her best friend. And there he is, waiting outside her door, sitting on top of his suitcase with a sketchpad in his lap. He grins at her; it’s exactly what she needs, it fills her up with light and warmth. Justin jumps up to greet her and she leaps into his arms. Of all the bone-crushing, oxygen-depriving hugs they’ve shared over the years, this one takes the cake. Daphne is on the cusp of asphyxiation, he’s hugging her so hard, but it’s the safest and soundest she’s felt in days.

“What are you doing here?” She asks, swallowing back tears of pure relief.

“I got this crazy voicemail,” Justin laughs, “From my shitstain of a father. He must have gotten my number from Molly or something - he called me and left this message, ranting about how ungrateful I am and how he doesn’t deserve to be ‘publicly humiliated’ by ‘that fucking pervert’. I’m guessing he meant you,  _darling?”_

“One would assume,” Brian drawls. Daphne pulls away from Justin and lets Brian embrace him. She watches fondly as they hug ardently. As Brian rocks Justin back and forth, he smirks at her over Justin’s shoulder and adds, “I can’t imagine he meant Daphne.”

“Hey, give me some credit,” Daphne protests, raising her eyebrows at him. “You’re not the only deviant in these parts.”

“Daph’s a total perv,” Justin teases, pulling away from Brian to swallow her in another borderline-painful hug. She sinks into it and buries her face in his shoulder. He strokes her hair and continues, “Anyway, I had no idea what the fuck he was ranting and raving about, so I called mom. She told me everything and I grabbed the first flight I could.”

Daphne squeezes him tighter. He drops his voice to a whisper and says, “I’m so sorry, Daph.”

This isn’t like all the sorries she heard at the funeral or Dr. Morgan’s pristinely rehearsed apologies. This one sounds real. This one means something. Tearing up, she replies shakily, “Thanks.”

“I have something for you,” Justin says, unlocking his arms from around her. He picks up his sketchpad and flicks through it to find the right page, then hands it to Daphne. As soon as she’s blinked away the tears that were blurring her vision, she takes the sketchpad and stares at it. Is she seeing what she thinks she’s seeing? As she realises that it is, indeed, what she thinks it is, Daphne feels the floor go out from under her. Staring at the illustration, she slips into freefall.

“Remember that trip our families took to Maine when we were seven?” Justin asks softly, touching the page delicately, his fingertips brushing over the ink lines with palpable familiarity. “We stayed in your grandparents’ house on the beach? Mom took this photo when we were walking up the coast together - her and me, you and your mom. I had her email it to me before I left San Fran.”

It’s the dream that woke her last night, she’s sure of it. The dream was threadbare and vague, but there were details that stood out in her mind, that stuck with her as she woke in tears. The shell jewelry they were wearing - bracelets and necklaces that Daphne fashioned herself, strung together on scraps of ribbon, clinking with every step they took. Her mother’s hair, flowing down her back in loose, fraying curls. She cut it not long after and never grew it back out again, preferring it short. Daphne always loved her mother’s hair most when it was long - she spent hours playing with it, plaiting it, admiring it. It was princess hair, she always thought. And, perhaps most memorably, the pink beach dress that Daphne wore for the entire summer, adoring it too much to part with it. She woke from the dream plagued by the echo of shells clinking, almost feeling her mother’s hair against her fingertips again, with a vision of that tattered pink fabric. It was so vague, so threadbare, but here it is - perfectly translated onto the page in front of her. It’s so vivid she can almost feel the sand between her toes again.

“How did you...?” She stares at Justin, trying to figure out how he could have possibly known. She didn’t tell Brian or Jen about the dream; she didn’t say a word about it to anyone.

Justin stares back blankly. “How did I what?”

“Nothing,” Daphne murmurs, shaking her head. “I love it. I  _love_ it.”

She wraps her arms around Justin. “I love  _you.”_

“I love you, too,” he says, very softly.

Daphne has no idea how she got so lucky. She has survived the past three days with Brian by her side, propping her up, listening to her, making her laugh at seemingly impossible moments. Now Justin’s here, and he’s returned something to her that she thought she’d lost forever. Her mother might be gone, but she has these two here. The floor is soundly underneath her feet again. 

*

Brian decides to give Justin and Daphne some time alone. He’s tired, anyway, to the point that he’s craving sleep. He slips away, leaving them huddled on the couch, immersed in one of their intense conversations. He closes the guestroom door behind him and sinks onto the bed, sighing with relief. It’s been a fuck of a long day. Thankfully, it’s almost at an end.

Before he can succumb to a much-needed sleep, Brian texts Cynthia to confirm the flight details for tomorrow and his schedule for the following week. When she replies, it’s to his relief that she’s found seats for Justin and Daphne on the flight, but to his utter horror that the entirety of next week is meetings, meetings, meetings, and then some. Even worse, she finishes the text with:  _Has Justin kicked your sorry ass yet?_

As he’s contemplating potential ass-kickings and how to possibly avoid them, the bedroom door clicks open. Brian sits up, then stands up, ready to face Justin’s wrath. He wonders if he ought to preempt it with an apology, for having technically lied, for not having told Justin what was happening with his best friend. Like Daphne, he doesn’t feel good about having kept this from Justin. They’re partners, after all, and Justin has made it clear time and time again that he values openness and honesty. Yeah, an apology would probably be quite fitting right now. But as it’s on the tip of his tongue to say sorry, Brian notices the soft expression on Justin’s face. It says it all - no apology is needed.

Justin crosses the room and grabs Brian’s hands. Brian laces his fingers through Justin’s, glad to be connected to him again. He feels vaguely pathetic, to be filled with this much longing after three measly weeks, but that’s drowned out when Justin kisses him. It’s brief, but wonderfully tender, and filled with affection. Then, slowly, Justin pulls away. He gazes up at Brian with adoration. It’s almost overwhelming, to be on the receiving end of such a gaze. Then Justin smiles and says, with intense sincerity, “You are the best partner I could have ever hoped for and the best person I know.”

“Am I?” Brian says, as lightly as he can manage.

Justin nods and loops his arms around Brian’s neck. “She told me everything. Thank you.  _Thank you.”_

Then they’re kissing again. Brian very nearly succumbs to it - he could lose himself in such a kiss, easily - but then he musters enough willpower to pull away. Squeezing Justin’s hands in his, he says, “No need to thank me, Sunshine - I didn’t do this for you.”

“You didn’t?” Justin smiles, like he knows.

Of course he knows.

“I did it for her,” Brian says, smiling back. “Like I’ve always said - I love that girl.”

Justin beams, spreading sunshine through the room. Brian drinks it up, fulfilled by its warmth. He leans in very close and presses a kiss to Justin’s temple. “I missed you.”

In a bare murmur, Justin replies, “Missed you, too. I can’t wait to go home.”

Neither can Brian. In an attempt to speed the process up, he pools into bed, tugging on Justin’s hand encouragingly. Justin joins him happily, settling in Brian’s arms. Brian falls asleep quickly, drifting in and out of thoughts of Justin singing his praises  _(the best person I know)_  and Daphne grinning at him, heartwarmingly bright and beautiful.

*

“I would have come home, you know,” Justin says, holding her hand as they make their way towards her mother’s grave, the icy ground crackling underneath their feet. “It wouldn’t have been any trouble whatsoever.”

She squeezes his hand and smiles at him. ”I know. To be honest, I probably would have caved and called, and begged you to come home, but then Brian showed up.”

Justin grins. “He said he did it because he loves you.”

“Shut up, he did not.”

“Did so,” Justin says, almost gloatingly. “Congratulations. You’re part of an elite club made up of the few people who Brian Kinney has openly confessed to loving.”

“Are there meetings?” 

“Once a month,” Justin says, grinning from ear to ear. “And badges, too. It also comes with teasing rights - you get to tell him  _I told you so_ whenever the mood strikes.”

“Sounds pretty cool,” she laughs.

Justin pulls her closer, likely to soak up a bit more warmth. It’s early, just barely after sunrise, and the chill in the air is positively Arctic. Daphne is wearing her funeral coat - it’s a depressing garment, she hates the ugly memories clinging to it (her father sobbing, the mechanism whirring as the coffin sank six feet below, her lungs constricting, her heart aching), but it’s also unbelievably cozy and a perfect guard against this wintry weather. Since San Francisco is apparently still enjoying warmer weather, Justin arrived with nothing appropriate in his suitcase, so he’s wearing Brian’s coat and one of Daphne’s scarves. Still, the cold gets through. As they crunch through icy grass and swish through the sleet-sodden pathways, the icy air creeps under Daphne’s skin, threatening to worm its way into her bones. To ward it off, she sidles up really close to Justin and quickens her pace.

They soon arrive at her mother’s grave, marked  _Evelyn Chanders: Loving wife, mother, friend._ They sit down, facing the headstone, still hand in hand. Daphne rests her head on Justin’s shoulder and stares at the words, starkly apparent against the marble. 

“I wish I knew her better,” she admits, as Justin kisses the top of her head. “I barely knew her as a mother. As for who she was outside of that... I have no idea.”

Justin doesn’t say anything. He, like Brian, has an acute understanding of what she needs. Right now, it’s silence. Last night, it was support and solace. She doesn’t know what it will be in the weeks to come, but surely Brian and Justin will figure it out.

“What gets me,” Daphne confesses softly, “Is that we were so much alike. She was always so ambitious and accomplished. I always thought we might find our way back to each other and bond over that. Now we can’t.”

She looks away from the words cut into the marble, away from the white roses covering the grave, laced with frost. She buries her face in her best friend’s shoulder and murmurs, “I think I’d feel ready to say goodbye if only I knew who I’d be saying it to.”

Justin hums sympathetically, then kisses the top of her head again: once, twice. It reminds her of how Brian comforted her during the funeral. Daphne exhales shakily and closes her eyes. She tries to remember the good times shared with her mom: that summer day they spent walking along the coastline, hand-in-hand, giggling as the surf tickled at their feet. Or prom night, feeling her mother’s hands sifting through her hair, styling it with great care. Her heart hurts again, but only very dully. _It’s healing,_ she thinks.

She hopes.

Speaking now to her mother, whoever she was, rather than Justin, Daphne says, “I wish we’d been closer. I wish I’d known you better. I’m sorry I didn’t make it to the hospital in time - I wish you hadn’t been alone at the end. I wish I could have been there for you.”

Meanwhile, Justin holds her close and strokes her hair. She couldn’t be further from freefall - she feels totally, entirely safe with him. And so she keeps talking for a while longer, letting it all pour out. Things she never got to say. Things she ought to have said sooner. Things she never realised she wanted to say until now. Things she said too long ago, things her mother probably forgot all about.

The hazy sunrise blush over Allegheny Cemetery gradually lifts, revealing a perfectly clear, blue sky. Daphne grasps Justin’s hand and checks his watch; it’s not long until they need to meet Brian at the airport. She stands up, bringing Justin along with her. He stays close as she takes one last look at her mother’s grave. The frost is trickling off the roses, spreading watery rivulets into the fresh earth. Daphne takes a deep breath. It comes back out in a nervous shudder. Gazing at her mother’s name -  _Evelyn -_ she whispers, “Bye, mom.”

Then she sinks into Justin’s embrace and lets him lead her out of the cemetery. The ground is softer underneath their feet now, wetter. She’s reminded of her shoes sinking into the puddled parking lot as her phone rang. She remembers her heart sinking; she knew, intuitively, what bad news was lurking on the other end of that phone call. That was three days ago. How many hours, minutes, seconds? She refuses to let herself think of that. Rather than reaching to check Justin’s watch again, she stuffs her hands in her coat pockets and fixes her gaze towards the gates of the cemetery. There’s her car, waiting for them, waiting for Justin to drive them to the airport, where Brian will be. Daphne focuses on that: the promise of a change of scenery with her two closest friends by her side.

As they get into the car, she finds herself looking into the cemetery. She can’t see her mother’s grave from here, but she tries to imagine she can. It still doesn’t feel like goodbye; not quite yet. Daphne doesn’t know when that will come, if ever. She can’t even tell if it’s worth waiting for, or if she should simply let things be. 

Now’s not the time to wonder, nor to dwell. She listens to the engine roaring to life and thinks of where Justin is taking her. She looks out the window and watches the winter wind whipping fallen leaves into the air. As the car picks up speed, Daphne watches Pittsburgh passing them by and thinks to herself:  _I’ll be back soon._  Then she turns back towards Justin and, after sharing a smile with him, she faces forward and focuses on the road ahead.

**The End**


End file.
